Simon Ott

We Just Found Out Yesterday
 
It looks a cold day outside this morning,
miserably cold, the air wet and still and stale
as the inside of a winter boot. There's real snow
to be seen out there too I notice, a thin coating of it
on rooftops and cars and patches of the lawn.
The birds are at their morning feed sparrows
most of them, local variety the occasional
bluejay or cardinal joining in and it's damp out,
wet. Cold. Do they mind, I wonder? Animals,
would they rather come indoors, be warm
all the time? Or would they miss the seasons?
Would they miss the familiarity even
of the cold winter snow? The light is pale this
December morning and the colors –
everything's washed out, nothing's bright.
The sky for instance is empty. No real
clouds even, just a grey pale depthless shield.
Bushes and trees all dead to sight. Withered,
and the birds are hungry, poor little mites.
Nameless specks. Do they mind I wonder
the cold do you think? I'm in my
bathrobe. I'm not eating anything this morning
myself. I look out the window
at my small flat square of yard instead
then at the street beyond, the cars sign posts
passersby, all drained of color. Everything's
washed out so dim I can hardly see things even.
People and birds are just echoes and slow blurs.
They melt away.
This is not a good day. It's the first day.
It's
a 'Victory Comes With Patience' day.
A white flag day. A snowy day.
It's very cold out, damp and chill, the light
the light is pale. My father's mind is dying. I
suddenly feel old today.
There's nothing that can be done. Autumn's over
winter's come. A pale light drains the color
out of everything. My father's mind is dying.
My father's mind
is dying.
I'm feeling very old myself today.

Simon Ott manages a small business for a nonprofit organization in a small town in Pennsylvania.